A Day Without Rain
by famoussarcasticlastwords
Summary: Modern AU. Recently dumped by the governor's daughter, having made a decision that almost cost him his career, Detective James Norrington doesn't have much hope for his future. Dr. Jules Bertrand (alias "Syrena") is a forensic psychologist with a troubled past. When they're partnered up on a horrific serial killer case, they're drawn into a world of horror, and to each other.
1. Prologue

_It begins with a group of girls in a basement and the smell of burning wood, of plaster and mortar blazing into dust. Of black smoke curling into the room, of one girl, her dark hair still wet from the bath, pressing her face to the space between wall and door, feeling the heat from the orange fire up against her cheeks._

 _It begins with a courtroom, with a decorated detective refusing to testify against two criminals with records. Of a headstrong girl and a promise she had made to him. "Your answer would not change mine; you are a fine man," she had said, her voice almost trembling, and at the time he had thought maybe it was out of tenderness. But it was out of sorrow, sorrow at having to lie to a friend. "My place is not with you," she had said to him a week later. The whole courtroom went silent, hisses and whispers snaking through the audience, the girl's father sputtering out her name in shock. The rest of his team looking at him like he was going to break._

 _The girls stepped into the hallway, where several objects were curling into husks in the fire. The dark-haired girl was trying not to cry, not out of shame, but out of knowing her tears were precious. Of growing up on legends of girls like her, harvested to bare bones for their tears. Broken glass sliced at the bottoms of her feet; she left bloody little prints as she limped along._

 _That night, he walked back home through the snow, duffle coat buttoned all the way up over his pristine crisp suit, returning to his brownstone apartment not the same man he was when he had left it. "So this is where your heart truly lies, then?" he'd asked her. The set of her face, her straight stance had told him he didn't need an answer. But he'd asked anyway. He remembered thinking that he had never seen her more beautiful. "It is, Detective," she'd replied. Only when he had gone to bed, an open bottle drained on the kitchen counter, the apartment groaning as it settled in for the night, did he allow himself to cry._

 _The girls stood in that hallway for a while before finally, someone broke into the basement to rescue them. They were carried out one by one, into the night air, and taken to the hospital. Some of them had been missing for a couple of weeks, others missing for years. The girl with the dark wet hair was eventually adopted into a family she'd learn to love, in a house she'd learn to call home. But at night, she'd close her eyes and hear, "Syrena, won't you cry?" When she touched the raised scar on her hip, she knew this pain would be with her always._

 _It begins with a new case, months after he was rejected, years after she climbed out of that basement. They were two beautiful people; it was a beautiful snowy day in a beautiful city. Everything about the world seemed quiet and lovely to them._

 _Except for the body._


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: I had this urge to turn POTC into a police procedural. I've also sort of adopted Syrena, because the creators didn't do as much with her as I would've liked. Hope you enjoy; this is my first POTC fanfic.**

* * *

" _I know very well that perfection is made up of frayed, off-struck mundanities. I suppose you could say my real weakness is a kind of long-sightedness: usually it is only at a distance, and much too late, that I can see the pattern." _Tana French_

 **One**

Detective James Norrington thanked the barista as she handed him his coffee and turned to walk out into the frigid streets. He could feel eyes on him as he left the building; it had been six months and people still stared. James had taken to avoiding public transportation, choosing to brave the city traffic or walk long distances.

Six months ago, his fiancé, Elizabeth Swann, had stood up during the trial of infamous racketeer Jack Sparrow, and declared she sided with his accomplice Will Turner. Turner was a carpenter, and not Governor Swann's first choice for his high-bred daughter, which he'd made clear. But Governor Swann was nothing if not selfless, and when he saw how happy Turner made Elizabeth, he'd put his own feelings aside.

So had James. Elizabeth made her dissatisfaction with marrying James subtle: forced smiles, avoidance of eye contact, but James had been so elated that he'd failed to notice until after. When he saw her looking at Will the way he'd wish she'd looked at him, James knew he couldn't make her unhappy for the rest of her life.

"You are a fine man, James," she'd told him.

All the comments, online and overheard:

 _Is that_ the _detective? The one that got dumped by the governor's daughter?_

 _I heard she did it in front of_ everyone _. Her father was there too! God, can you imagine?_

 _Oh, but he's handsome! Why wouldn't she want to marry him?_

 _When she passed out and fell at that party, he was prepared to jump after her! I'd marry him in an instant!_

He buttoned up his coat further. He had other things to worry about. His new case had come to him in the wee hours of the morning, when a girl was discovered dead in a park. She was the third this month, her death bearing eerie similarities to the previous two. The department had determined it a serial, and James was now leading the investigation. James supposed he would take the macabre as a distraction; it seemed better than what had been on his mind lately.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, James looked up at the crisp blue sky, the fresh snow sparkling in the harsh sunlight. The wind was numbingly cold today, and it tunneled through the streets with enough force that James felt his ribs were bending under it. It was just before Christmas, and he gazed fondly upon the students peeling after each other, at the children swathed up to their noses in scarves and jackets, staring up at him as he passed.

He was supposed to meet a new colleague today. Captain Beckett had assigned him a partner, someone with a background in forensic psychology.

"I don't think it does you any good to keep working alone like this," Beckett had told him over the phone. Still in bed, his hair sticking up in tufts, James had rolled his eyes. "Dr. Bertrand is quite brilliant. She's a bit of loner, too, from what I've heard of her. And she's quite easy on the eyes, if I may add," Beckett had prattled on.

"Captain, I wish you'd set me up under other circumstances than over a dead body. A restaurant would've sufficed." James put his face in his free hand.

Then he'd hung up, having reached his limit with Beckett for the day. Ten minutes maximum was what he could handle, but today he decided it was a good idea to make it five.

Despite himself, James was in higher spirits today, and he had to admit he was a little eager to meet his new partner. He had little in the way of friends, and he did not count Officers Gillette and Groves as such.

At the park gates, he showed his badge to the officer standing guard. Dr. Jones, the coroner, walked over from a tent, ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, and strode toward him. Dr. Jones was the kind of man who seemed suited only for a job like a coroner or a mortician. Upon first meeting James, Jones had asked him if he'd feared death. Apparently that's something he asks everyone.

"Morning, Detective," he said. His gray beard looked stiff, and it took James a minute to realize it was frozen.

"Morning," James replied, tossing his now empty coffee cup into a nearby trashcan. "What can you tell me about the crime scene so far?"

"Judging by the state of the body, she's been dead about six hours," Jones began. "Cause of death appears to be either asphyxiation or sharp force trauma, but I can't say for sure until the autopsy."

"Same MO, I assume." James felt a familiar chill at the top of his skull.

"She was killed elsewhere, then dumped here, same as the other two. She's got a trident branded on her right hip and it looks like the killer dyed her hair black." Jones paused. "If it's the same as the previous two victims, he would've dyed her hair after he killed her."

The chill radiated from the top of James's skull and down his spine. He'd dealt with horrific crimes before, but at the hands of organizations. A serial murderer seemed more personal, almost intimate, picking out victims from a crowd of potentials, choosing to make a statement with their bodies. He used to hear senior officers and detectives in the bullpen talking about how they never forgot their first serial.

James thanked Jones, who turned and walked back toward the crime scene tent. "Good luck, son," he called as he strode away.

He caught movement from near the tent, and James's eyes fell on a slight young woman wearing a black peacoat. She shouldered her way past Jones, stopped to say something to him, then ducked under the crime scene tape and walked purposefully toward James. This must be Dr. Bertrand.

Beckett had been right about the whole "easy on the eyes" thing, though James had to admit that was a bit of an understatement. Dr. Bertrand had a small, delicate face, with bee-stung lips and wide, striking green eyes. Her hair was black, and she wore it pulled back into a knot at the top of her head. She was beautiful in an ethereal sort of way, her face a little pink from the winter wind. She looked like she belonged barefoot in the woods, not at a crime scene.

"You must be Detective Norrington." James caught a French accent. "Captain Beckett wanted me to meet you."

"Yes." He outstretched his hand. She took it, her grasp firm, but her hand was cold. "You must be Dr. Bertrand. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."

"Only for a few minutes," she replied. She glanced over her shoulder, at the crime scene tent. "But I did have a look. It's definitely the same killer."

James followed her toward the tent. "What can you say about him so far?" he called after her.

"He's young," she said as they approached the body, which was covered by a black tarp. "And he's angry."

She knelt down, pulling the tarp back. The girl was facedown in the snow, her hair frozen in clumps, a deep cut running from the small of the back to between the shoulderblades. In the little warmth of the tent, a sweet stink was started to take over. James noticed Dr. Bertrand grimace, a little crease appearing in her forehead.

James maneuvered himself so he was standing beside her. This tent wasn't built for people of his height; his head brushed against the top, creating static in his hair. It began to stand up, sticking to the ceiling and giving him little shocks as he moved. Dr. Bertrand watched him, her eyebrows raised. Her lips were pursed in a way that told him she was trying not to smile. When she saw him looking at her, she quickly glanced away.

James smoothed his his hair and cursed Captain Beckett straight to the gates of Hell.

* * *

 **A/N, part 2: I don't know why it's snowing. I guess I liked the idea of James Norrington walking in a winter wonderland. At this point you might be asking why this isn't set in the Caribbean. I guess it's because I'm more familiar with cold urban environments, and Jack Davenport's character in _The Talented Mr. Ripley_ wears a lot of heavy winter clothes, which I imagined a modern Norrington would also wear. I hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think :)**


End file.
